Hands that Rock the Wood

To hawthorn, alder and sycamore
long-tailed tits come twirling
with striped bashful faces,
subtle twig crack and rustle. Blackbirds
streak like surreptitious messages,
eye beads alive with caution
knowing it is not only bird feet
but other hands that snap twigs,
crack branches, make leaves fall
and spin jennies. But when I turn
there is nobody there, just the slow floating.

Sometimes I wish I was down with the seeds
or were the hands that rock the wood
and knew what fills the gaps
leaves abandon
where a solitary magpie croons
and woodland spirits breathe,
reaching out to touch the unendurable.